He Who Hunts Monsters
by Twentyfists
Summary: One man stands against slavery. Rated M for violence and drug reference.
1. Chapter 1: Judgment Day

He Who Hunts Monsters

by Twentyfists

Chapter 1: Judgment Day

Author's Note: All weapons in this story are based off of weapons from one of the Fallout games, not just Fallout 3. This story is not set in the DC Wasteland, nor is it set in the Core Region. Finally, the Man in Black was created by my friend Run4urlife! You can find his work at the Fallout Fanon Wiki.

"He who hunts monsters should beware of becoming one himself…"

Fredrich Wilhelm Nietzche

Any passerby in that bleak corner of the American Wasteland, particularly one not accustomed to the peculiarities of the region, would have simply assumed that the distant lights and sounds were simply the signs of some unusually happy individuals in their revelry. Certainly, the hoots of pleasure, the laughter, the distant fire, and the heavy, acrid smoke that hung in the air indicated a certain festive atmosphere and a disdain for caution that would be associated with a celebration.

However, any seasoned inhabitant of that grim land would know far different, and would do well to avoid the area until its current occupiers were long gone. They knew far too well just what that particularly foul-scented smoke was created by, and they understood the cacophony of malicious joy for what it was. For this was no ordinary camp. No, it was the camp of a group of Swamp Foot tribe warriors. The vicious raider clan was known in the region for its destructive tendencies, predatory nature, unruly warriors, and cannibalistic practices. Every victim of the tribe that wasn't taken prisoner to work in their scavenging operations and plantations was slain, and their bodies were either eaten by the warriors or left to burn on their celebratory bonfires. They were the scourge of the region, the bogeymen of little children's nightmares, and the bane of the farmers who spent their time trying to eke out their pitiful existence in the wake of an ancient devastation. This group was no exception. Pumped full of adrenalin and hyped up on Psycho, they had thrown the slaves they were bringing back to their camp into a corner of their camp where they could watch them, then proceeded to celebrate and crash. When their slaves would cry for food, the warriors would beat them and laugh as the slaves cried out in pain.

Yet even these men had fears, no matter how well they tried to disguise them. One of their warriors, Skann, was telling of one such fear to a junior member of the small tribal raid group.

"They fought like demons, desperate to protect themselves against this relentless onslaught. They were numerous, and they were seasoned killers. Every man of them had killed men in both the heat of battle and in cold blood. Yet they did not even faze the Man in Black. His emotions were masked behind a deep, brooding hatred that overshadowed all other emotions. Yet this hatred was cold, contempt-filled, almost. With every shot, they grew more and more desperate, and more and more afraid. For every bullet they fired, every arrow they slung seemed to simply pass right through the Man in Black without harming him. And every shot they fired was returned in kind by the Man in Black with deadly efficiency, his pistols cracking as he created a field of death that none could escape from. The warriors recognized the futility of their endeavor far too late. As they turned to run, the Man in Black fired, cutting them down where they stood."

Lash, the junior warrior scoffed. "You're joking, right? You can't be serious, Skann. No one can do the things that this 'Man in Black' can do. There's no way that one man can overcome an entire raid party. It's simply not possible."

"Do not mock the Man in Black!" the grizzled warrior roared. "Speak his name with dread, or not at all! If you doubt or mock him, he'll come to you, as sure and black as death itself!"

Lash only laughed in response. He, for one, doubted that this 'Man in Black' even existed. But there was no reasoning with Skann. The old man was set in his ways, immovable as a rock, and as stubborn as one too. He stood up and moved to the edge of the camp, where Flesk, another older warrior, stood guard. Unlike Skann and most other members of the Swamp Foot tribe, Lance was very serious and restrained, which made him perfect as a scout and guard.

"What do you think, Flesk?" Lash asked. "This Man in Black—is he a real man, or just a tale to frighten otherwise strong warriors like Skann?"

"Could be," Flesk replied, taciturn as ever. He was on the job, and he refused to relax when on the job. "You never know. He could be a vigilante like Skann says, or he could be a grouchy farmer with a bad reputation."

"Oh come on," Lash laughed. He stared out in the night before continuing. "I doubt that there's any real 'vigilantes' anymore, and no farmer can stand up to a determined raid group. It's all hype. I doubt any man can do what this 'Man in Black' can do. What do you think, Flesk?"

Lash turned back to Flesk and, instead of the warrior's stoic grim visage, Lash simply saw a bloody, fleshy crater where the Swamp Foot scout's head used to be. In that instant, time slowed to a crawl for Lash as his ears registered the distant crack of a high-powered weapon. Behind him, he could sense the Swamp Foot tribals climbing to their feet in alarm, but they moved as though they were underwater. Before Lash had a chance to move or even think, he suddenly felt a hammer blow into his chest, as though a train had slammed straight through Lash's chest. A second one followed this blow almost immediately, and Lash fell into darkness.

From his perch a short distance away, Ira Tremain watched the youthful raider fall, a victim of Ira's sniper rifle. Ira's face registered nothing as he felt the rifle's kick in his arm or saw the figure drop, although he seemed to glance away slightly as he saw the effect that his shots had on the young man's countenance. He never could stomach those last looks that dying men gave.

Ira advanced forward, already loosening his sawed-off pump-action shotgun from its sling as he replaced the sniper rifle back to his perch. He needed to move quickly while the Swamp Foots were confused, or they would get the drop on him. Fortunately for Tremain, they didn't. They hadn't thought to have their weapons on hand, and so, when Ira emerged from the night into their camp, the stinging smoke from the corpse fire spiraling off of his tattered leather jacket, it seemed to them that their judgment day had finally arrived. In that instant, they knew how every victim of their predations had felt at the moment of their doom. Ira was a stoic angel of death, and the shotgun was his sword. He wasted no time, firing upon each of them without hesitation, only pausing to pump his shotgun and cycle the next round into the chamber. Within a few seconds, it was over. Five raiders lay dead, their corpses strewn about the campfire.

Ira advanced towards the cowering bodies of the slaves. They had been saved from his wrath, but they cowered in fear of what was to come. For them, it appeared as though they had been transferred from one hell to another, one at the hands of the Swamp Foot raiders, and the other under the thumb of this new and deadly stranger. When Ira drew his knife, it appeared for one ghastly second that Ira was simply going to cut their throats and be done with them. They were surprised, then, when Ira simply sawed through the simple rope bonds that held their arms and legs together and whispered with his hoarse voice in their ear, "You're free to go." As they showered praise and adulation upon him for this incredibly kind act, his only response was, "Please, find a better man to thank."

This statement puzzled the former slaves, but Ira refused to explain himself, instead deciding to stare into the flames of the bonfire. When it became apparent that their rescuer would not speak further, they began looting the bodies, stripping the Swamp Foot corpses of their armor and weapons. As the slaves prepared to scamper off into the night, they took one last look at their savior. He still sat, unmoving, staring into the flames lit by the Swamp Foot raiders at the beginning of the night. The slaves approached him then and left a small tribute, a helping of ammunition that the raiders had had on their bodies. Ira nodded slightly, but otherwise gave no indication that he had seen their contribution. The slaves left the ground puzzled at this odd behavior.

When Ira saw that the former slaves had left, he stood up then, gathered up the ammunition left behind for him, and began the tedious process of examining the bodies. It soon became apparent that these corpses did not bear the mark that he was looking for. Ira sighed heavily, and then began to leave the sight of the slaughter. As he did so, he wiped from his eye a single tear, a silent memento for the dead men that he left behind.


	2. Chapter 2: Knights of Dixie

Chapter 2: The Knights of Dixie

_Author's Note: Sorry about the delay._

Ira shook his head. He was having yet another period of self-reflection, during which he would contemplate his life and what could have been. He realized fully the futility of this exercise, but there was really nothing that he could do.

He was, once again, contemplating what would have happened had he not left the farm that day. Before he had been a laconic slaver-hunter, he had been a farmer with a wife and daughter and with a world of opportunity before him. Anyone who had been alive before the Great War would have sneered at his "opportunity", but, for Ira, being able to grow crops free for his own family and sit down every night in front of a good dinner with a wife and child was all he wanted.

He was denied that opportunity. He had gone out one day to round up a stray brahmin and had returned to a house in ruins, with his wife and child nowhere to be found. He did eventually find them, a mile down the road, brutally beaten, with ripped clothing and slit throats. He had never even had a chance to say goodbye.

After that, Ira swore a vow over their dead bodies to find the man responsible and make him pay dearly. He sold what was left of his farm and his herd, using the money to purchase a set of weapons and a suit of crude armor. He did manage to find the man, a small-time slave trader who had eventually confessed, under Ira's knife, to have raped and murdered Ira's wife and daughter. Ira then enacted his vengeance.

His vengeful fires, by then, had burned out. Ira knew that there were more slavers to be killed, and, during his quest for vengeance, he had sworn a second oath to exterminate slavery whenever he came across it. But his personal stake in the matter had been removed. Besides this abstract vow, which no one could ever fulfill in a lifetime, Ira really could have let them be. But he was a man of his word, and so he continued on.

Ira shook his head again and chuckled grimly to himself before taking out and lighting a cigarette. Amazing how the end of his life so long ago brought him all the way to where he was now, a burnt-out diner outside a backwater town along a road that, even during the halcyon days before the "Cataclysm", was probably just as isolated and nondescript as it was now. Ira was familiar with the location. It had been relatively close to his farm. He was stopping by after paying his respects to the crude monuments he had constructed on what was once his land. The current owners understood.

Ira stood up slowly and stretched his legs before nodding to the woman behind the charred counter. He collected up the flatware that he had been using and turned it back in on the counter, along with a few bottle caps, payment for his meal. He collected his weapons at the door and made his way into the town of Blueriver.

Ira had never been much for towns. He never saw the desire of people to live in close proximity to one another in dirty, smelly buildings constructed from whatever was nearby. Blueriver, for example, was made of the wrecks of cars, blackened wood, the carcasses of boats, and sheet metal. What person in their right mind wants to live there? Of course, it did provide a measure of security. Ira knew all too well that the farm had no such guarantee.

He glanced at the people in the streets and the buildings. From what Ira could tell, an attack had taken place. There were new marks on the buildings, and the walls sported bullet holes. The gates appeared to be damaged, and the dry air was marked with that certain cloying smell of decaying bodies. Raiders, perhaps? Ira walked towards the larger building in the town's center. Once a gas station, it now served as the office and home of the town's only formal government, "Mayor" Thomas Brydall.

The mayor wasn't a bad sort of person. He was a short, ruddy-faced man with an odd penchant for insect meat and an aversion towards weapons. He had managed to attract new settlers to his town, bring the merchants of the town into agreement, and provide for the creation of a much more effective town guard. His jovial personality and his innate ability to get along with people made him a popular mayor. He was especially perfect for this small town, because he would personally make note of anyone's problems and try his hardest to fix them, or at least make a suitable compromise.

In the wastes, though, there were some things that just could not be solved through discussion. The hardships of a life after the apocalypse had reduced the people of the land to a hardscrabble bunch who would do anything to survive. Blueriver was a haven for honest people in a land populated by, essentially, savages. These people, the infamous raiders and slavers, leached off of others to survive, attacking settlements to extract what they needed, but always leaving them more or less intact so that they could come back again and again, milking the land and its people for all they were worth. It was a dangerous business for the raiders, as each attack caused village leadership to take measures to protect themselves, but they were hardened warriors. Such measures meant nothing to them.

Ira took a drag from his cigarette and approached the door to the mayor's office. The Blueriver militiaman at the door, clad in crude leathers and holding an antiquated shotgun, moved to bar him entrance.

"You're not allowed to enter here. Please turn around," the militiaman said in as confident a tone as he could muster.

"I'm here to see the mayor," Ira replied coolly. He had nothing to fear from this militiaman, who was quaking in his boots at this tall, black-clad stranger.

Ira leaned his head around the militiaman and called in to the mayor. "Tom! I'm back in town. Let a friend in, would you?"

"Ira!" Thomas Brydall called back, his face brightening at the sound of Ira's voice. "Come in, man! I haven't seen you in a long while!"

Ira nodded to the militiaman and stepped inside the mayor's office. Thomas Brydall sat at a large desk, slowly baking in the Maryland heat and humidity in spite of the valiant efforts of the fusion battery-powered fan slowly spinning above him. The mayor had a small pile of paperwork in front of him. He was slowly going through it and adding notations to the documents, scribbling notes in the margins or underlining something he'd written. He put down his pen and looked up at Ira.

"It's good to see you again, Ira. It's been a long time. How are things these days?" he asked.

"Good enough," Ira replied.

"Did you get the man you were looking for?"

"I caught up to him in Lester, a ways up the road. I sat down and told him who I was and what brought me there. He shut up real fast. I'd taken good care to ensure that his men were gone, and, when he bolted, I followed. There was something wrong with his leg, and he eventually collapsed from pain and exhaustion. I pried a little and got him to confess. I knew what he'd done, but I needed to here him say it and realize the gravity of the situation.

"I shot him dead as soon as he confessed."

Tom nodded slowly and sighed. "An awful business, that. Slavery is an abominable industry, no doubt about it. What are you going to do now?"

Ira glanced out the window. "I swore an oath, late at night, to my wife and daughter that I would exterminate slavery whenever I found it. My own personal stake's been taken out of it, but I don't think I'll be giving up slaver-hunting any time soon. I'm a man of my word, and it would be horrible if my own inability to keep my word made someone else suffer like I did."

Tom seemed distracted. Although he was listening to Ira, something else, something very pressing, was on his mind.

"Tom," Ira continued, "something's bothering you. I noticed the town was in rough shape. The people seem a little on-edge. What's going on?"

Tom sighed and pushed away his paperwork. Ira looked at his and noticed that Tom's face bore a darker cast to it. He looked worn and tired. "Several days ago," he said, "a group of armed people came to town. They carried a tattered red flag with a blue 'X' on it, marked with stars. There armor bore the same symbol. They identified themselves as a group called the 'Knights of Dixie', and they demanded that I hand over to them a tribute of food, goods, and slaves, preferably ones they called 'darkies'. They warned that, if I didn't comply, they'd take it the tribute by force.

"Of course I refused, although we're all paying the price now. I couldn't let my town be cowed by a group of thugs. They stormed in and began kidnapping townspeople, damaging buildings, and grabbing whatever they could carry off. The townspeople and the militia managed to fight them off, but they got what they wanted. The people are worried that they'll be back again, and I'm worried too. They always come back, especially if we resist."

Ira nodded slowly and unconsciously clenched his teeth in the back of his mouth. _Racists, raiders, and slavers_, he thought. These people were despicable. They couldn't be productive, and instead had to be predatory. As if the people of the wasteland didn't have enough to worry about as it was. They had no respect for others, and the only thing that truly motivated them was greed and sloth. This wasn't Ira's fight, but he would make it his fight. He would send a message, both to these "Knights of Dixie" and to slavers and raiders everywhere, that the hard-working people of the wasteland would not allow this to continue, that they would not let raiders and slavers run rampant over their crops and carry off their friends and family without retaliating.

"Tom, you're awfully lucky I swore that oath. If I was anyone else, I would let bygones be bygones and let the slavers have their way. But I'm not anybody else. I'm going to show these animals that there are consequences to greed. Did you see what direction they came from?"

Tom blinked. He was taken aback by Ira's zeal. He was accustomed to people being primarily self-interested, but here was Ira, proving him wrong. "They came from the swamplands, so I'd say east or southeast."

Ira nodded his thanks and stood up. He turned toward the door and was just about to cross the threshold when he heard Tom speak again.

"Ira?" he said. "Thank you, and God bless."


End file.
